


Backfire

by whizzy



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whizzy/pseuds/whizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad is moving before he registers the threat, because that's what training does to you, it keeps you alive when you're too stupid to react; when your brain and your senses are still squabbling over the dubious reality of the man who has just appeared out of nowhere in the middle of your kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backfire

**Author's Note:**

> Yagkyas exchange 2010, written for alethea293. Thanks as always to whatsubtext for hand-holding and beta duties. This is a work of pure fiction, based on character portrayals that are many interpretations removed from the people who bear these names. No disrespect is intended.

Brad likes the private beaches on base because they're quiet, clean, and did he mention quiet?

This morning, he hit the waves before dawn, so it's not surprising that he is the first to stumble across the bottle. Literally, by stepping on it.

It's a tiny thing, easily mistaken for a shadow nestled in the sand. It's also hard, faceted crystal or stone, with a pointed cap that does a real number to the sole of his foot. While limping around in a circle and cursing, he considers hurling it as far as he can into the ocean for spite; but he frequents this patch of beach, and with his luck, he'd just step on the damned thing again the next time it washes onto shore.

So he picks it up. It fits comfortably in the palm of his hand, and he notices that the bevels are sharp, not worn down by the action of the surf. Maybe it was never in the water. Maybe someone lost it on dry land. It reminds him of a perfume bottle, definitely still sealed, and he knows from gift-giving experience how expensive that shit can be. He'll ask around with the regulars, see if he can find the owner.

At least, that's the plan. He dumps the bottle into the car along with his wetsuit and gear and promptly forgets about it.

~~~~~

He rediscovers it two months later while rifling under his seat for change to feed a parking meter, and he gingerly sets it upright in a cup holder for fear it will leak. He's surprised it hasn't already with all that rolling around, but he's pretty sure he would notice if his car started smelling like the boudoir of a Parisian whore.

The bottle rides into his house in his shirt pocket while he juggles his keys and purchases. He intends to throw it out -- it's too late now to locate the owner -- but even as he's holding it poised above the trash can, curiosity gets the better of him.

It truly is an unusual piece, no markings anywhere. The stopper is made from the same deep green material, and it seems to be resting in place, yet doesn't come undone when Brad tips the whole thing upside down and shakes it.

He's never experienced the boudoir of a Parisian whore. _What the hell,_ he thinks, and twists the bottle open.

The scant liquid inside is too masculine for perfume, the scent reminiscent of sun-baked spices drying in an open air market. It's actually pleasant, not something he would ever wear himself, but--

Brad is moving before he registers the threat, because that's what training does to you, it keeps you alive when you're too stupid to react; when your brain and your senses are still squabbling over the dubious reality of the man who has just _appeared out of nowhere_ in the middle of your kitchen.

The man feels solid enough when Brad slams him against the nearest wall, one arm wrenched up behind his back. "Pal, I don't know where you came from or how you got here, but you made one hell of a mistake sneaking up on a Marine in his own house. You got exactly five seconds to explain before I call the cops. And make it fucking good."

"I have committed no crime," the man protests, and Brad has to give him points for keeping his voice steady. The way Brad has him pinned has to hurt like hell.

"Wrong answer." For starters, the guy's a walking crime against fashion, and in California that's saying something. He's dressed in a loose pair of pants, no shirt, no shoes, but the wrist Brad is gripping is adorned with a wide, gold-colored bracelet.

No, it's a shackle, complete with the ring where you'd affix a rope or a chain.

 _Christ, don't tell me..._ Brad's neighbors have been known to get loud with some pretty freaky shit. This guy probably belongs to them; wouldn't be a surprise if he was high in addition to half naked. "I bet I know what happened. You wandered in the wrong door, yeah?"

"Master, there is no mistake--" the man begins, but Brad cuts him short.

"Involving the cops would be a pain in my ass, and I'd still have to deal with you until they show up. So this is how it's going to play out. I'm going to throw you out, and you're going to crawl back to whatever dungeon you escaped from. Then I'm going to have a couple beers with dinner and hopefully forget that I ever saw you." For his own sanity. The less he knows about his neighbors' sexual escapades the better.

The guy seems confused when Brad releases him. He turns around, all wide green eyes and guileless expression, and asks, "It is your desire that I return to my prison so soon?"

Oh yeah, high as a fucking kite.

"Yes, that is my desire," Brad states firmly, reaching to take the guy by the scruff of the neck and frog-march him for the door. But the words are barely out of his mouth and the guy is just... gone. There one second, poof the next. Brad would never fucking believe it if he hadn't seen it for himself.

Actually, he still might not.

Even more fucking insane, he finds the green bottle resting right where the guy was standing, all sealed up again, and this time no amount of effort will make the stopper budge.

~~~~~

Brad goes for one of his longer runs the next morning, the one that loops him down into town proper. The bottle jostles in the pocket of his sweats with every stride, but instead of being irritated by the weight he grows accustomed to it. By the time he's standing at the end of the Oceanside pier, it feels as if he's been carrying the bottle forever; it’s strange to want to throw it away.

He does though, winding back his arm and pitching the trinket high out over the water. He sees it glint against the sky, then loses track of it before it hits the waves and sinks.

 _Well, that's that._

~~~~~

There's a live-fire exercise scheduled for the day. Brad is waiting in line at the armory when he glances over and finds that fucking pajama guy standing right next to him.

Right in the middle of thirty other _recon_ Marines, who haven't so much as batted an eye.

The guy's offering the green bottle to Brad, saying, "It's pointless trying to throw this away. It will only find you again."

"What in the fuck are you doing here?" Brad demands.

One of the guys from Brad's platoon looks around, _still_ doesn't see the half-naked freak, and says, "Yo, what's it look like, Colbert? I'm waiting in this slow-ass line, same as you."

"And you don't notice anything-- Fuck, never mind."

"No one else can see me," Pajamas says. "So I would advise you not to cause a stir. You would only serve to make yourself look foolish."

Yeah, Brad gets that, except replace _foolish_ with _batshit insane._ He's about to check out an automatic weapon from the armory; now is not the time to admit he's seeing things and hearing voices.

Pajamas is still holding out the bottle. "Go on, take it."

Brad minutely shakes his head.

"Once enacted, the terms of the contract must be met. This is the first step."

"I didn't-" Brad cuts himself off, amends, "I didn't realize this was gonna take so long." It earns him muttered agreement from his fellow grunts.

"Whether wittingly or unwittingly, you did. Take your reward, my master."

The guy -- apparition, delusion, whatever -- can fucking stand there for eternity, and Brad's not going to touch that goddamned bottle. In fact, he's going to turn away and pretend very hard that neither of them exist.

Because they _don't,_ not in the real world, not outside of his head.

~~~~~

As it turns out, it's downright impossible to ignore a hallucination that dogs your every step. The bastard follows Brad on the hike to the range, not struggling at all despite bare feet on the rough terrain. He stays glued to Brad's side throughout the entire exercise, displaying uncanny patience and a total absence of fatigue as he continues to hold out the bottle.

It's fucking unnerving. Brad's aim goes to shit; and worse, people are beginning to notice that he's distracted, which in turn causes his reputation to suffer. Brad's supposed to be the resident cool customer, not the basketcase who scowls at empty air and mutters threats to no one under his breath.

He gets the "Anything you want to talk about?" line from both his gunny and his LT, and he's released from Friday afternoon administrative bullshit to go home early, with the implication that he'd better put his head back on straight before he returns next week.

Brad would love nothing more than to put his head back on straight. He's just not sure how to accomplish ridding himself of his unwanted visitor. Locked doors are not a deterrent; Pajamas just slides _through_ the side of Brad's car to sit in the back seat for the ride home. (Brad nearly sideswipes a lamppost because he's too fucking busy trying not to watch the guy's reflection in the rear view mirror.)

Likewise, the deadbolt on Brad's garage door doesn't stop him, nor does the lock on his bathroom door, and okay, seriously, "Enough is e-fucking-nough! Can't a man take a piss without an audience?" Brad shouts, throwing the closest thing at hand, which happens to be a bottle of deodorant.

It bounces off the guy's chest, startling them both. "Apologies, a thousand apologies master," the guy says, bowing and scraping back through the door.

Much as Brad would like to hide in the bathroom like a little bitch -- it's the first peace he's had all day -- he eventually leaves to find the guy kneeling just outside. And what a surprise, he's still holding that fucking bottle.

"Take it."

"I've got a better idea. Why don't you pull that disappearing trick from last night and leave me the fuck alone?"

"Please," the guy says, and his tone isn't humble or anxious so much as desperate. He's looking oddly worse for wear, wan and feverish; the hand held out to Brad trembles now with strain.

"What the fuck's the matter with you?" Brad asks, before he remembers that -- oh, right -- hallucination.

"The compulsion was set upon me the instant you opened my prison. Your resistance only makes it grow stronger."

Compulsion? Brad's pretty sure that his own hallucination isn't supposed to babble on about stuff he doesn't understand. "Oh no. You," he points, "don't exist. You can't blame me for shit that isn't real."

"Please."

"And stand up. You look ridiculous on your knees." Maybe ridiculous isn't the right word, but Brad's never been into the dominance thing -- or guys much, for that matter -- and he's not about to let a pair of sultry green eyes give him ideas.

"Please do this. It will cost you nothing and give me respite."

He can't believe he's actually considering it. "Let's suppose I _do_ take your stupid bottle. Then what? Are you just gonna hang around driving me slowly insane?"

"I am only permitted to remain until the contract is fulfilled. Until that time, I am your obedient servant."

Obedient, Brad's ass. But at least they're getting somewhere. How difficult can it be to make good on the contract thingy? If he starts now, maybe he can get rid of the guy by morning.

Brad reaches out, takes the bottle. As soon as it's in his hand, he wonders how he ever could have thrown it away. It feels right, like something he didn't know he was missing until he found it again.

"Thank you." The guy slowly rises to his feet, an expression of overwhelming relief and gratitude on his face. "That is... much better. I am more myself again."

The bottle goes in Brad's pocket without comment. "Don't thank me. I didn't do anything."

The guy just gives him a knowing look.

"Fine, whatever." Brad realizes it's cramped because they're still bunched in the hallway outside the bathroom. There are much better problem-solving venues, so he says, "C'mon, we're gonna sit down and figure out how to fix your contract. And while we're at it, since you're so _obedient_ and all, put on some damned clothes."

Pajamas glances down at himself. "You find this form displeasing?"

It's tempting to say yes, but Brad doesn't know if it's possible to lie to his own hallucination. "Not exactly, no."

"Then why do you desire to see me covered? I am assured that I am quite decorative. If displayed to the proper advantage, I will increase your standing among your peers."

Brad gapes a little, because seriously, who the hell talks like that? Also, the notion itself is horrific. "First of all, my standing doesn't need increasing. And second, it's not... polite to prance around half-naked with your nips standing at attention. But I guess you've never heard _no shirt, no shoes, no service."_

"I have no other clothing. This is all I own."

 _For the love of-_ "This way," Brad orders, dragging the guy to the bedroom, where he throws a t-shirt and an old pair of cammies at him. "I absolutely draw the line at lending you my underwear, so suck it up and go commando."

The guy just sort of stares down at the things in his arms. "But these are yours."

"Yeah, and you're not much shorter than me. Should fit."

"It is just that I am unworthy to-"

"Get dressed," Brad snaps, and leaves the room so he doesn't have to watch the guy do it.

It's a little easier to think without the crazy, walks-through-walls, invisible guy hovering just over his shoulder. "Hallucination" is still the best explanation, but Brad wants to know why it's happening to him. Delayed PTSD? LSD contaminating the water supply? Maybe that's what was in the bottle, some incredibly potent drug that's taking a long time to run through his system.

Pajama guy finds Brad in the kitchen. He looks dazed, but in a good way, and he's much less distracting in his borrowed outfit. Brad approves.

"Is this right?"

"Yeah, you're fine. Now sit your ass down and tell me about this contract."

He almost seems to be scoping out a spot on the floor until Brad points at a chair. "Where shall I begin?"

"Start with a name."

"I cannot remember it."

Now that explains so fucking much. "Then start with what you _can_ remember."

The guy's eyes go distant, as if he's actually looking into the past. "Like yourself, I was once a warrior among my kind."

Wouldn't think it to look at him. And that's an interesting choice of words. "What is your kind, exactly?"

"I am ifrit, if that means something to you. The old ways are dying out. Together with the lower ranks, my kind are known as jinn."

"Jinn like genie, three wishes and all that." Complete with bottle -- of _course._

"You do know of us."

Brad snorts. "Mostly as a shitty old sitcom, but go on." His life has been delightfully free of drug-fueled inanity since Person left the Corps to settle down, so this is like nostalgia or something. It'd go great with pizza and a beer, he decides.

The guy -- genie, _right_ \-- hesitates. "Many centuries ago, I showed mercy where none was permitted. The punishment for my disobedience was to be bound in eternal servitude to the lesser creatures upon whom I'd taken pity. It was said at the time of my imprisonment that I would learn firsthand the true nature of humans -- their greed and hunger, jealousy and spite."

"Now wait just a fucking minute. If I'm a lesser creature, then how come you're the one stuck in a miniature liquor bottle?"

That almost seems to offend the guy. "My powers may be shackled to the will of another, but believe that they are intact."

This is gonna be fucking great. "Prove it," Brad smirks.

"Very well." The guy open his hand, stares, and a tongue of realistic fire appears, hovering several inches above his palm. He picks up a napkin and feeds it into the flame; it burns quickly to ash, but there is no smoke.

Huh. That was... a bit more convincing that Brad had hoped. Then again, he's pretty sure he's seen the same illusion performed as a stupid bar trick. "Cute, but I'm not impressed."

The guy doesn't move so much as blink. One second he's sitting at the table, the next he's got Brad on his back on the ground, and is _holding_ him there with his fingers gently wrapped around Brad's throat.

It's like trying to break a chokehold made of rebar, attached to a two ton block of concrete. Brad kicks and claws, actually fights, and gets exactly nowhere.

"Never fear," the goddamned demon says, "Though I have great strength, I am not permitted to harm you, even if I wish it."

"That's a fucking relief. Now get the fuck off me!"

It does, standing at once.

Brad scrambles upright, heart pounding. "That's- that was something," he says, shaking his head clear of some earlier presumptions. That thing doesn't need to be armed to be dangerous as hell. And also, Brad is clearly no longer the baddest mofo in the room.

"Was that sufficient, or do you require further demonstration?"

Brad stabs a finger at the thing. "Never fucking lay hands on me again. Understand?"

It bows its head. "Yes, my master."

"If I order you to get in the bottle, you have to do it, right?"

"Yes, my master. I... expected to be punished for my audacity."

"Then get in the fucking bottle, and don't come out until I tell you to." Which is going to be, oh, _never._

~~~~~

The thing is, Brad's due three wishes if all the stories can be believed. They were never mentioned specifically, but he's pretty sure they have something to do with the contract.

There are about a million reasons why he shouldn't touch the bottle ever again, but once he's calmed down and had some time to assess the situation, he begins building an argument for why he should.

Curiosity plays a large part. He doesn't necessarily want the wishes -- the stories are full of disastrous backfires, greedy masters ending up miserable and remorseful -- but he does want to know if it's all _true_.

Then there's the other problem, the one where he's not going to be able to sleep while a burning mystery inhabits the small bottle resting in the middle of his kitchen table. And Brad's the master of being able to drop unconscious whenever and wherever the opportunity strikes, so that's saying something.

Hell, if nothing else, he needs to know what to call the thing. _Hey you genie_ just doesn't work for him.

Brad sits down, taps at the glass. "Hey. Come on out."

Nothing happens.

"I said you can come out." He tries the stopper, which is again fitted so tight it won't budge.

Still nothing. What the fuck is this, the cold shoulder treatment?

He could always threaten to throw the bottle away again, but to be honest, he wants the ifrit on his side. Withholding vital information isn't the same as harming Brad, but it's probably a good way to ensure he ends up dead or worse. Brad's heard that story, too. "Listen, I didn't mean to send you to your room like a spoiled brat. You're by far the strangest thing that's ever happened to me, and I just needed some time to process."

This time the stopper comes out easily, and a thread of flame follows, arcing over to puddle on the floor. It grows into a fiery column, hot and large enough that Brad is afraid it could burn down his fucking house, and then suddenly it’s gone and the ifrit is standing in its place.

 _Show off._

Bowing low, the ifrit says, "As I am summoned, so shall I appear." It's laughably formal even for him.

"Cut that out," Brad says. "Stop with the bowing and the kneeling and the master bullshit. My name's Brad, and I'm going to have to think of something to call you."

The ifrit blinks at him, clearly not expecting this turn of events.

"I'm open to suggestions. A hint maybe?"

"I cannot remember my true name, and even if I could, I would not share it. It holds sway over me."

"Okay, then what do people call you?"

The ifrit gets that faraway look again. "I have served many masters over the centuries. Often I am not bestowed the honor of a name. There was one though who called me Nathaniel."

“Nathaniel?” That's kind of ordinary and God-fearing, but somehow appropriate as well.

"He was a poor master. When I could not satisfy his lust for power, he ordered me to summon an even stronger jinn, thinking in his arrogance that he could bind it to his will." He adds casually, "I watched with great pleasure as it tore out his still-beating heart and feasted upon it before his eyes."

 _Shit._ "Uh, let's go with Nate instead. That work for you?"

"It shall be as you wish," he says, stopping just shy of the master bit.

"No, it's _your_ name. If you have a problem with it, say so and I'll pick another."

"Nate," he tries, and nods. "It is acceptable."

"Well then Nate, why don't you sit down and tell me about this contract?"

~~~~~

Dinner is delivery pizza and beer, both of which are new to Nate, but he goes from skeptic to true believer within two bites.

Brad learns that there are wishes, all right. The standard three, and the first one's a no-brainer. It has to be a test, to see if this shit's legit. It has to be something impossible, something that can't be attributed to coincidence, and also something that Brad can verify. And it can't involve him personally; he's not quite ready to fuck up his life if any unforeseen complications arise.

"So how does this work? Does it have to start with _I wish,_ or..."

"It is traditional, but not necessary. Have you something in mind so soon?" Nate asks. He's staring longingly at the pizza box, but it seems he won't just reach for another slice, or even ask for one.

Brad gives up on trying to wait him out and shoves the box over. Might as well finish what's left before it gets too cold. "Yeah, I do."

"The first one is always easiest," Nate agrees, and if he grins with too many teeth, it's hopefully because he's about to tear into a piece of supreme extra-cheese hold-the-olives heaven.

Brad sees this as a chance for a live-fire trial, and also an opportunity to rid himself of his own perpetual nemesis of the airwaves, that uniquely American blight upon good taste: "I want to outlaw country music."

"Outlaw?" Nate asks. "This word is... severe. Perhaps you would prefer to use another."

"Nope. I've worked this through. See, if I say something like _I don't want to hear that crap ever again_ , you'll just make me go deaf and say I got my wish. This way, it isn't about me, so I'm protected by a layer of insulation if- when shit goes bad."

"If that is your wish," Nate says, dubious.

"Are you allowed an opinion here?"

"It sounds like an unworthy thing." Apparently that's a yes.

"Only to someone who hasn't spent thirty-six hours confined in a small space with Ray Person; or done six months at sea with eight hundred other bored-off-their-asses Marines, including that guy who only brought _one_ CD and listens to it on repeat all day, every day. And sings along. Six fucking months of that. It's a miracle I came through sane."

Although that point is currently open to contention. He's sitting at his kitchen table stuffing away pizza and booze with a supernatural being straight out of legend.

"If I may be so impertinent as to make an observation... you are unduly concerned with the sexual nature of things."

"I'm what?"

"Everything is ‘fucking'," Nate explains.

Oh. "I'm a Marine; it can't be helped," Brad dismisses. "Now, are you going to grant my wish, or are you just full of shit?"

"If you are certain."

"For the last time, yes. Hurry up and get it over with. My curiosity is killing me here."

Nate claps his hands once. "It is done."

What, no lavish speech or special effects? Talk about anticlimactic. But to be sure, Brad asks, "That's it?"

"That is it."

"Bullshit." Brad stalks over to his stereo and fires it up, scanning through the frequencies of known offending stations.

There's not a lick of twangy guitar or fiddle anywhere. Even the local bastion of country music is putting out the soothing strains of classic rock.

"Un-fucking-believable. You actually did it."

Nate sniffs, "It is always so with the first wish, denial before acceptance. Do you regret your choice now that it is made? You are no more wealthy or powerful than you were when you began."

"Fuck no," Brad beams. "It'll be worth it just to see the look on Person's face."

Besides, he has two wishes left, and he can think of a lot more interesting things to use them on than a sack of money or a throne. Super powers, for example. Invisibility, teleportation... maybe the ability to kill with his mind.

That would be so fucking _sweet._

~~~~~

"I've got a question," Brad says. It's late in the evening, and he's scrounging for something for Nate to wear to bed (assuming, that is, Nate actually sleeps). It doesn't seem right to stick him back in the stupid filmy harem pants. "If you can clap your hands and make an entire deplorable genre of music go away, how come you can't magic up a change of clothes?"

Brad has noticed that Nate prefers to stand, but this time he's chosen to settle on the edge of Brad's bed, his hand smoothing over the comforter in concentration. "I am permitted to do nothing for myself, only to act in your service."

The _master_ almost slipped out there, Brad can tell. "But what if I told you to-"

Nate shakes his head.

"Here, these should work. You know where the bathroom is. Do you, er, need instructions?" He's not sure how long Nate was in the bottle, or how much he's aware of the outside world when he is, but if pizza is new, indoor plumbing might be as well.

Nate hesitates before taking the clothes. He admits, "I do not consume food in the same way that humans do. I do not require sustenance. I feel hunger that can be appeased, and I am subject to other ordinary discomforts, but I require nothing for my actual survival."

Brad murmurs, "You're in the wrong business. Shoulda been a grunt."

"I cannot recall the last time I had a master who bothered to feed and clothe me, let alone with the things intended for their own use." Nate is pointedly avoiding eye contact, and _oh,_ that's what this is about.

"Times are different," Brad shrugs it off. "If the Geneva Conventions had been around in your day, you wouldn't have been imprisoned in a bottle."

"My master is too modest," Nate says, as if daring Brad to call him on it.

"Go change," Brad tells him. "I'll find some blankets. You can have the couch, unless you _want_ to sleep in the bottle. But I figured you'd been stuck in there so long..."

Nate shivers slightly. "I wish to enjoy the outside for as long as I may." He looks at Brad then, uncertainty mingling with want. "I would share your bedchamber."

"The hell you won't." Because Brad's pretty sure he doesn't mean just to sleep.

"It is a form of service at which I am quite skilled," Nate explains cautiously, as if he's unaccustomed to arguing for something he desires; for being permitted to desire anything. "It would be pleasant for all involved. Your shape is appealing to me, as I know mine is to you-"

"Now hold on just a damned minute!" It's wrong in so many ways that Brad doesn't know where to start. "You said it yourself -- you're under a compulsion to serve. That's not consenting in my book."

Nate rises and pads over to Brad; Brad watches his approach warily. "Free will would not dampen my hunger. It has been so long."

Just fucking great, an all-powerful genie with a bad case of blue balls. Brad would laugh, except it's not funny the way Nate's slowly taking on the aspect of a predator. "I can't," he says. "I'm not, as you say, permitted. My warrior, uh, fraternity frowns on men having sex with other men. I would be discharged, thrown out."

"Oh," Nate says, "if that is your only objection..." He shimmers in place, like heat haze over a desert, and when it's gone-

Well, there's no delicate way to put it. "You grew tits," Brad blurts. "You _grew-"_ How is that even fucking possible? Also, this is going to destroy Brad's mind, because it's still obviously Nate -- same eyes, same features -- just softened and refined, with feminine curves in _all_ the right places.

"This is a shape I have taken on many occasions," Nate says, and even his voice is changed. "Does it meet your approval?"

"Switch back," Brad orders. "Right fucking now."

The haze comes and goes, leaving an ordinary (ha!) and perplexed Nate behind. "My sex is not your only objection," he decides. "Are you faithful to another?"

Brad wants to edge away, in case Nate still has ideas about getting physical, but he's not a frightened little bitch, damn it. "As a rule, I don't fuck around outside my species -- and no offense, but I don't know what the hell you are. I just- This is a little too much to throw at me all at once, you know? I don't regret the wish, but I would regret this. I mean, it's a generous offer, but thank you: no."

Christ, he's rambling.

Nate really should enlist. He manages to nail the almost-perverse tone that is every noncom's God-given right when dealing with junior officers who think their bar's worth of experience outweighs a whole mess of chevrons. "Times are indeed different. I do not pretend to understand your reluctance, but I am, as always, obedient to your desires."

Or lack thereof -- Brad gets it, and guess what? It isn't funny. "Go change," he sighs. "I'm on the bed, you're on the couch, and I'd appreciate it if you never mentioned this incident again. In fact, the entire topic's closed."

~~~~~

Sleep is a long time coming, so it pisses Brad off extra special when his phone rings in the middle of the night, and he rolls over to read the clock and finds out it's just after oh two hundred.

Whoever's on the other end of the line has a death wish, plain and simple. He knows this because they let it ring, and ring, and ring... and oh, that's right. Nate is asleep in the front room. Brad's surprised the noise hasn't summoned him yet, and picks up before it can.

" ‘llo?"

"Brad."

"Oh fuck me, I know that voice," Brad groans. "Ray, I thought we discussed this. As part of the deal we agreed on when you left the Corps, I'm not supposed to hear your voice between the hours of oh one hundred and oh five hundred. No more sleep-deprived ramblings, no more drunken requests for a ride home from the bar. You live forty minutes away; hoof it or take a fucking cab like everyone else."

"He's joking," Ray says to someone, and it's muffled, like his hand is over the receiver. Then, "Yeah, I know, I may have accidentally agreed to some of those things. But bailing me out of jail isn't on the prohibited list, so get your ass over here, and bring your wallet."

"Jail," Brad repeats, just to be clear. "You're in jail."

"County lock-up."

"Why the _fuck_ are you in jail?"

"Dude, you're never gonna believe this."

"The short version, Ray. Or I'll fucking hang up, and I know this was your one phone call."

"Oh great, I wasted my one phone call on a heartless motherfucker who's gonna leave me in here to rot for his own sadistic pleasure."

"Do _not_ give me ideas."

"Okay, okay! I got pulled over for doing, like, sixty in a forty-five zone."

"And?" Brad prompts. There has to be more. He just hopes it doesn't involve punching a cop. Bail for that shit won't be cheap.

"And... I got busted for possession of a controlled substance."

"Weed? Coke? I'd say meth, but that's a little whiskey tango even for you."

Ray says, "Fuck that shit. It was a Taylor Swift CD. And maybe some Shania Twain, but it was just a couple songs on a mixtape. It's not a habit Brad, I swear. I can stop whenever I want."

Groaning, Brad smacks the receiver down on the button, then throws the whole mess off the nightstand for good measure, just in case Ray manages to finagle another phone call. He rolls onto his back, staring blankly at the ceiling for a few minutes.

Fuck. It's just like the stories say. _Something_ always backfires.

"Nate. Nate! Get your ass in here, I changed my mind."

Nate stumbles in, ungraceful in his hurry to answer the summons for the first time that Brad can recall.

Brad clicks on the light. He and Nate both wince; and Nate appears groggy enough to have actually been sleeping, not just faking it for Brad's benefit.

"You changed your mind," Nate repeats, and luckily he's just as slow as Brad on the uptake.

 _"Not_ about sleeping with you. The ban on country. I need you to fix it."

"I am afraid that is not possible. What is done is done."

"Then un-fucking-do it," Brad growls. "There has to be a way. Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my life bailing Person out of jail on minor possession charges, all because he can't control his shitacular taste in music."

Nate wavers, as if he knows the answer and is afraid Brad isn't going to like it. "It can be undone, but it will require the use of your second wish."

Also in keeping with the stories Brad remembers. It's a high price to pay for _losing_ ground, but the alternative is even worse. "Yes," he says, "but only if you can put everything back exactly the way it was, like it never happened."

"That is what must occur."

"Exactly the way it was," Brad warns. "Leave Person sitting in the brig and I'll find a way to send your ass to bail him out. Even if I have to burn my last wish, I'll do it."

Nate pales at that. "Please, have a care with your final wish. Do not make such requests even in jest, for I may be compelled to fulfill them."

"I'll be careful," Brad promises, surprising himself with the conviction in his words.

"Then it is done," Nate says, and claps his hands.

~~~~~

Brad is exceedingly careful. He's not about to blow his last wish on something trivial or accidental, not in his line of work, when it has the potential to be applied to a real clusterfuck, maybe save a lot of lives.

For that matter, the world peace option is right out the window. The backfire would doubtless be horrific, humanity wiped out by a plague or something. Plus, Brad is in the business of fighting wars; he loves the Corps, and he wouldn't know what to do with himself if he put himself out of a job.

There's another problem, one whose looming presence goes mainly unspoken. The more time he spends in Nate's company, the more Brad suspects that he actually likes the ifrit.

Nate has a quick mind, and a wicked sense of humor that begins to shine once he's ingested enough pop media to understand the requisite cultural references. It doesn't take long; he spends most of his first week of freedom in front of the television, or Brad's computer, sucking in vast quantities of information. He's been famished for so long, starving for new ideas and experiences.

Brad often catches him stilled in a kind of obscene joy, revisiting forgotten sensations: plush carpet underfoot; the sun warm on his face when Brad takes him out shopping; the shower that lasts so long he runs through all the hot water and stands under the cold for another hour, just for the contrast.

Brad falls in the habit of carrying the bottle with him everywhere. It's a connection that Nate claims to find soothing when they're not physically close, but it's also a reminder for Brad. Nate returns to his prison upon granting the final wish, and he doesn't deserve to continue his eternity of servitude. Whatever his crime, he's surely paid for it a hundred times over.

He reminds himself that he hates to see any being robbed of freedom, that his concern for Nate's future is nothing remarkable. But then they take a ride up the coast, Nate clinging to Brad's back as the bike devours the highway at speeds well above the posted limit. They're late turning back -- Nate urging _more_ and _faster_ is impossible to ignore -- and when they pause to watch the sunset over the water, Nate's expression is so fucking beautiful that Brad feels some of that awe seep into himself. His nerves remain alight with it the rest of the way home.

That night, Brad decides to stop lying to himself and starts laying a plan instead.

~~~~~

After a month, Nate still sleeps on the couch, but he's graduated to a drawer in Brad's dresser for his clothes, a toothbrush on Brad's sink, and a small corner of the living room for the collection he describes as the first possessions he's owned in as long as he can remember.

He has a taste for cheap, tacky jewelry that Brad is unable to discourage. Nate just laughs and says, "As a highly functional ornament, I was used to being swathed in the finest jewels. I find them boring now, and common things fascinating."

"It's bling," Brad complains. " _Fake_ bling. You look like a freak. I wouldn't be seen in public with you."

"I know," Nate laughs again, looping a chain around Brad's neck. "That it drives you crazy is all the more reason to persist."

The exception is the set of gold shackles Nate still wears. When pressed, he admits that Brad is the only one who can see them, but refuses any assistance in trying to remove them. "It's not a good idea," he says, and seems annoyed that Brad would even mention them.

Brad's pretty sure he knows why, and it will probably have something to do with his third wish.

He intends to broach the topic one evening after work, not because he wants to upset the strange balance that he and Nate have achieved, but because nearing events are forcing his hand. He's running out of time.

Nate isn't at the door to greet Brad like he sometimes is. It doesn't matter; the ifrit's presence has infused the house, welcoming Brad home in a way the empty building never did.

"Nate?" he calls, dumping his bag and stripping out of his jacket.

There's a sound from the kitchen. A voice- no, _voices_ speaking in low amusement.

 _What the hell?_

It's a scene straight out of the top ten list of things Brad never wants to see, ever. Nate and fucking _Person_ are huddled at the kitchen table, flipping through what looks to be the latest copy of _Hustler_.

"Brad!" Ray shouts when Brad's shadow falls like an ill omen across the pair. "Why didn't you say your old friend from military school was in town? This guy's hysterical; we've gotta take him with us tonight!"

"Nate's just passing through," Brad says, glaring hard at Nate. How the fuck does he even know about military school?

Nate takes the glare, pours heat into it until it scorches, and hurls it right back. "I don't need to get an early start," he fumes. "There's no reason I can't stay out late tonight at _Brad's going away party_."

 _Thank you, Ray's great big fucking mouth._ Brad isn't even able to mount damage control with Ray sitting right there.

"A six month float sounds like a pretty big deal," Nate continues. "Probably a lot of planning involved. How much warning do they give you before you ship out?"

 _Ray, I swear to God, if you value your life..._

"A couple weeks," Ray plows ahead -- and fuck, Brad _should_ have wished for the ability to kill with his mind instead of rescuing Ray from behind country music bars. "At least that's how it was when I was in. They might have switched it up just to fuck with me when I went civilian."

Nate's holding a conversation with Ray, but he still hasn't torn his eyes off Brad. "Is a couple weeks enough time to put your affairs in order?"

"Oh, maybe for crazy-organized assholes like the Iceman here, but for us normal guys, not really."

"I see."

Brad finally snaps. "Ray, what the fuck are you doing here? We were supposed to meet at the bar."

Ray abandons the _Hustler,_ while Nate continues to leaf through it with poorly feigned interest. It's the conversation that has his attention. "Okay, so I forgot which bar we're starting at, and I didn't want to call Poke and bother him again, but I was already in the cab -- left my car at home ‘cause I plan on getting wasted -- so I figured I'd stop in here first, see if your couch was free in case I don't want to make the trip home until morning."

"It isn't free," Brad sighs.

"Duh, I figured that out because of Nate. But I was a Marine; a night on the floor isn't gonna hurt my pansy ass."

"But I could, ‘accidentally' stepping all over your spine when I take a detour through the living room to reach the bathroom. And you know I like to sleep in my boots, the ones with the thick, nasty soles."

Ray pauses. "Or I could just make the trip back to my place."

~~~~~

There isn't a chance to pull Nate aside and sort this shit out before it's time to head out to the bar. Ray insists on Nate joining them; and Nate (without speaking a word directly to Brad) insists that Ray be allowed to insist; and the cab ride over is probably one of the more uncomfortable quarter hours of Brad's life, because Ray called shotgun, leaving Brad and Nate to simmer at each other over the imaginary boundary of the fold-down center armrest.

The party begins as a pleasant opportunity to get some of the local guys from the old platoon back together, but quickly detours into the realm of the surreal when it becomes apparent that Nate has some kind of personality whammy that he's laying on all of Brad's friends.

For starters, they _all_ fucking love him with the same gushing enthusiasm as Ray, even the most suspicious motherfuckers who should be poking holes in his flimsy background story. He holds court at the center of the long table -- in what should have been Brad's place of honor, dammit -- slamming back drinks (that don't seem to affect his cheating ifrit metabolism) and being manhandled with the fond familiarity that's never awarded to outsiders. And as the evening and alcohol progress, so do the stories.

Christ, the stories.

They're all about Brad: Brad's moxie in the field and notoriety on liberty; Brad's arid sense of humor; stupid and crazy shit he's done or had done to him. He gives up trying to correct inaccuracies after the first one, because like all stories that have been retold dozens of times, they've grown larger than life.

In fact, Brad gives up period. He had a plan, and it's all falling through. He doesn't know how to begin picking up the pieces when the biggest one is sitting there vicariously drinking in Brad's essence, while at the same time wanting nothing to do with Brad himself.

~~~~~

Living with Brad has taught Nate to respect a closed door... most of the time.

That night-- well, morning actually -- after the party is an exception. Fueled on confusion and wounded pride, Brad slams into his bedroom, making it clear that two can play the cold shoulder game.

Nate is right behind him. "When were you going to mention that you're being deployed?"

"Fuck off," Brad says, stripping for bed. Maybe the damned ifrit doesn't need sleep or get hungover, but Brad's just a lowly human.

"When do you leave?"

"I repeat: fuck off." He could resort to ordering Nate to the bottle. He hasn't since that night ages ago, but he could. It's tempting.

Nate usually doesn't display any type of nervous energy. Tonight he's pacing, eating up the room in long strides. "Did it not occur to you how this will affect me?"

"Of course it didn't," Brad snaps, balling up his shirt and throwing it into the hamper. "I never think about you, never bring you things or take you places. I don't come home and spill my guts over the dinner table about the ‘fascinating' shit I have to put up with every day. And I certainly don't do it all to watch you fucking light up like the sun when something pleases you."

Nate halts facing a wall; and just fucking wonderful, he's not going to answer.

"Did you put the same moves on me you put on my guys?" Brad has to know. "And don't bother denying it. I know them, and I know you, and the way tonight went down wasn't fucking normal."

"It doesn't work on you," Nate says quietly. "It never worked on you. If it did, there would be nothing to stop me from using you to break my imprisonment."

Brad's pulse quickens. This is what he's been needing to know, what Nate has always dodged by shutting down the particular line of inquiry about his shackles. "It's the last wish, isn't it?"

No response, but the tensing of Nate's shoulders is indication enough.

"The bottle's purpose as a prison is secondary. It's a self-perpetuating lesson in cynicism and animosity. And you resent us humans a little more each time one of your masters refuses to show you the mercy you once showed our kind. I'm right, aren't I? Nate?"

When Nate turns around at last, it's with total defeat. "You are not wrong," he says, helpless gaze burning into Brad's across the short distance. "But there's more you don't know."

Brad is across the room before he registers taking a step. "Then tell me. You realize I'm the one, don't you?" he says, voice dropping soft and gruff. "I'm the crazy motherfucker who doesn't need awesome superpowers or a billion dollars. I'd rather have you free."

Nate reaches up, touches Brad's cheek. "I know," he says, "and that's what's killing me."

Once upon a time, Brad issued a moratorium against Nate laying hand on him. Leaning into the contact now, he's sort of glad it didn't stick. "Then let me do it. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the deployment sooner. The plan was to free you before it became an issue. I can do it right now. Nate, I wish-"

Fast as lightning, Nate claps his hands over Brad's mouth and holds them there, _hard_. "Brad-" He never calls Brad by his name. "-don't. The wishes are always perverse. Always. If you free me, you do so by taking my place."

 _Oh, fuck me!_

Nate rushes on, "I wanted to let you do it, so badly; I would give almost anything to escape. But everything good I saw in you, your companions confirmed for me tonight. Imprisonment is not a fate I would wish on my worst enemy, let alone someone- Someone I- If only you'd been less honorable, I might have found the hardness in my heart to allow it. But I can't. Brad, you can't."

Eyes wide, Brad nods minutely, until Nate trusts him enough to lift his hands away. "I won't. Not when there's a chance we might find another way."

There has to be another way.

Brad knows he's looking at this wrong. The bottle... it's a decoy. The shackles have to be the real target. "Nate, let me see your wrists."

Nate hesitates but obeys. The golden cuffs glint in the low light.

"What do these do, exactly?"

"They limit my power and prevent me from acting on my own behalf."

"Without them, how strong are you?"

"I don't like these questions. You're leading somewhere dangerous."

Brad's thumb slides to the inside of one cuff, stroking the skin of Nate's wrist. "Please."

Nate shivers once, closing his eyes to speak. "The ifrit are the greatest of the jinn, and even among my kind, I was a warrior of no small power. I have not taxed my true strength in many centuries."

"Good enough to risk it," Brad decides. After all, what's the worst that could happen? He and Nate could end up trapped together for eternity? At least Nate wouldn't be alone anymore.

Nate's eyes snap open, and Brad could swear the pupils contain flickers of heat, fire so dark it burns black. "Whatever your plan, I forbid it. I _can_ stop you."

"But you won't, because you trust me, and because I'm _asking_." No orders, no compulsion. "I wish to share your servitude with you. Half of it, in exchange for half my freedom."

Neither one of them will come out the other side whole, but neither will the integrity of the bonds holding them.

"Nate?"

"You are definitely one crazy motherfucker," Nate says. The black flame is eating away at the green of his irises now, and, grinning savagely, he draws his hands together.

The report is thunderous, something Brad doesn't hear so much as feel reverberate to the center of his bones. The shackle on Nate's left wrist begins to soften and melt, until it's running in molten rivulets down his arm. Brad reaches out to catch a drop on his fingertip, and the whole mess flows in reverse, engulfing Brad's forearm. The heat should be searing his flesh off, but there's no pain at all; he suspects that's Nate's doing.

The shackle takes mere seconds to reform and cool, until Brad is wearing the perfect twin of the one adorning Nate's wrist.

"Are you well?" Nate asks, searching Brad's face. It's disconcerting to stare into the pits of flame that are now his eyes.

He doesn't feel different, exactly. There's a little something, a heightened awareness of Nate, but it's not detrimental. It might not even be unpleasant. "I think so, yeah." Fuck, all that and he's not even breathing hard. "I used my last wish. That means it's bottle time, right?"

"No," Nate says simply. He takes a step back, and the bottle appears on the ground between them. "You were exactly right. I can't destroy my own prison, but I can destroy yours." He raises his foot and grinds it to dust beneath his heel; when he's finished, his eyes are green again.

~~~~~

Epilogue

~~~~~

"Six months is a long time. Are you sure you're gonna be okay on your own?"

Nate laughs and punches Brad in the arm. It's a move he learned from Person; and Brad wishes he hadn't, because Nate can hit a lot harder than that scrawny-ass fucker. "I spent the last thousand years alone in a cell no larger than an egg. Six months with all this space to myself won't kill me."

"Yeah, but it'll be six months without seeing my handsome face over the dinner table."

"In that case, it will be like a vacation from your filthy vocabulary."

Brad is dressed, packed, and ready to head to camp for his deployment. All that's left to do is lug his enormous ruck to the car and go.

It still feels like he's forgotten something.

"I've reminded you not to burn my house down while I'm gone?"

"Only about a dozen times today."

"Hey, I've seen you and fire. It bears repeating. And all the important phone numbers you might need are on the fridge. You know, pizza guy, fire department--"

"Brad," Nate interrupts. "Come here."

Brad approaches cautiously. He knows that tone of voice, and it doesn't always end well for his pride.

Nate catches up his wrist, fingers winding around the gold band that Brad is learning to ignore most of the time. Thank fuck it's never tangible to anyone else, just him and Nate. He'd never be able to explain it in a million years to the Corps.

"I do have a boat to catch, you know."

"Mmhm," Nate agrees, tugging Brad into a brief, light kiss.

It's over too soon. Brad leans forward, seeking more, but Nate is already drifting away. "Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me. You wait this long to make another move and that's all I fucking get?"

"Go catch your boat, Sailor." That's another thing Nate learned early, that the seemingly innocent insult is guaranteed to get a reaction from Brad. "And remember what's waiting for you when you come home."


End file.
